Saving Ferelden's Rather Large Bum
by xXSaberXx
Summary: F!Amell has some things to say about her life.
1. Chapter 1

She hated templars.

She hated most things, actually. This tower, this floor, those drapes, that half-eaten corpse of a rat behind the bookshelf. The cats were the only animals allowed in the Circle, and they often had more character than all of the stuffy, prideful mages combined.

She actually didn't hate the food. It was alright. The cooks knew what they were doing. It could be worse. She remembered her times before the Tower, the nights spent in abandoned grain shacks with the mice and hard floors, the moldy bread.

She hated a lot about the Circle, but it meant food and a soft bed and warmth (just a bit of warmth, really, because the Tower might as well have been made of a single solid icicle from the Frostback Mountains for all the heat it retained).

In a perversely practical way, Amell was grateful. Magic was a curse, but a very delightful, very _useful_ curse. For instance, one would have an extremely hard time hiding Knight Commander Greagoir's smallclothes in a block of frozen lake ice were it not for magic.

(She was mostly good at ice spells. At the age of eight she had learned to carve heavy snowdrifts into caves in less than three minutes, which was the average time it took for a blizzard to hit in the Hinterlands. Charmingly enough, it took only half that long to die. Very few people asked her how she knew this, but she probably wouldn't tell them anyway.)

Amell did not hate the food. She didn't hate the classes, either, though the mage instructors were boring, ridicule-y, and generally could not find it in their kindness to shut up. All of these traits were easily looked over using a special trait of her own – zoning out. It was more commonly called 'daydreaming', and it earned her slaps on the wrist and extra homework, but was ultimately worth every sting and written line of 'the purpose of a high level fire spell is to discourage hostile attacks burn enemies to a fine, tasty crisp'.

She also liked having Jowan as a friend. Best friend. Friends since the first day of Creation magic class eleven years ago. She also liked Cullen. Just a bit. Just a tiny bit. 'Tiny bit' meaning 'talk to him after every class and during dinner and maybe also during mass if she could get away with it when the Reverend Mother was busy picking her nose'.

Sure, her Harrowing was...harrowing, and the fact that Jowan convinced her to break into the phylactery chamber proved she was too loyal for her own good, especially when it turned out he really _had_ dabbled in blood magic. Yes, the betrayal stung, but Lily's raised chin as she walked away, escorted by templars, reminded Amell that someone else was feeling the sting more and she was suddenly glad her sting was comparatively marginal.

At least Jowan was free. They'd talked about it as kids, like a nice dream you weren't supposed to have. Freedom, family, choice. There were a lot of things mages weren't allowed to have.

When Duncan asked her to join the Grey Wardens, she accepted. It wasn't the fame or glory bit, or even the 'we get to ride griffons tee hee' part. It wasn't the glare of Irving or the overtly murderous threats of Gregoir's. It was the freedom that convinced her. The thought of fresh air everyday and nature beneath her feet, the thought of a sky that wasn't obstructed by half a block of marble and puke-colored curtains and templar helmets.

She is a little sad to see Cullen, with his red hair and gold eyes, wave goodbye.

And travelling is _marvelous_, full of foods she's never tried and people she's never yet had the chance to be rude to. She can sleep without hearing a pair of mages above her in the bunk bed fumblingly getting it on. Bathing, she doesn't have to worry about templars sneaking peeks from between the cracked walls of the water chamber. She doesn't even have to worry about a stray ice ball – she can shoot a few into the sky and whoop cheerfully and no one tells her to 'stop that nonsense' or 'foolish, headstrong girl, you'll be the death of us all' or 'by the order of the Chantry, desist at once!'.

When Duncan asks her about homesickness a few days later, she laughs.

"No. I don't miss being trapped. But thank you for asking, anyway. You're sweet."

He is not sweet. He cuts down bandits like well-churned butter. They might as well not exist under his blade at the rate he cuts through them. Her ice spells take far longer to kill. Dying by cold is slow compared to fire or lightning, or even nature damage. A stone kills you quick, fire kills you quick, and sparks kill you faster than you can move. But ice? Ice likes to see you suffer.

It is fitting then, she thinks, that ice has chosen her.


	2. Chapter 2

Ostagar is filled with smelly men.

And she minds this. Oh yes, Amell minds smelly things very much, and minds men more than smelly things, which makes smelly men the most _minded_ things on the face of the planet right about now. There are few women, but in all honesty they could pass for men with their bulk and hard faces. There is one pretty blonde being hit on in the corner and she is the only exception and Amell feels sorry for her with a capital, underlined, bolded, glittered, neoned S.

King Cailin is dim-witted, which of course she doesn't say in front of Duncan but secretly thinks it so hard that she thinks he might have caught on, because Duncan is not dim-witted in the slightest. Cailin's one redeeming attribute is his handsome nose, which Amell focuses on to make sure a comment about his disgustingly low intelligence does not fall from her mouth.

He is also cheery and that is good. Cheery kings live longer than somber ones, she's observed. Or at least they get more tail. Or so she thinks. She has never actually gotten any tail of her own, and this has been weighing heavily on her mind as of late, beside the whole best-friend-betrayal and I've-just-become-a-part-of-a-covert-warrior-cult and vicious-beasties-who'd-like-to-kill-Ferelden-dead-are-everywhere bit.

So Duncan is not quite put together, because all the people she was supposed to meet who are also her new 'family' are scattered all about camp and she must traipse about and pick them up like she's herding them to school or somesuch. And one of them is thin and cute but shifty and another is redhead and balding and not cute at all, and the last is framed by the afternoon sunlight and looks quite handsome, but when you get up close he has a mouth on him. Which can be fixed, Amell has learned. Good looks were harder to fashion for a man than good sense.

On top of it all, he unwittingly lets it slip that he was a templar. Was. As in, trained all his life to hunt and kill people like her.

Which is alright, really, everyone needs a job, and she lets it slide but she never lets her guard slide, which results in some awkward pauses that Alistair tries very hard to cover up with Crap She Does Not Care About.

The shifty one is Daveth and the balding one is Jory, (which is quite the dumb name, she has to admit, because she is half-certain she ate a cracker brand with the same name, and the crackers were quite dumb in themselves) and after much deliberation and whining it is decided they will frolic in the woods and gather some things. Frolicking also seems to require Alistair's presence, which is wholly discomforting, especially when he uses an oh-too-familiar templar spell that rages with white fire that starts a buzzing in her head even from thirty paces.

And after the fourth time he uses it she starts to go faint, and the next thing she knows she's propped against a tree with Alistair shying away from checking her over for wounds while Daveth and Jory keep lookout.

The ex-templar's hand hesitates as it moves from her ankle, and his eyes are locked on the hem of her mage robes. He flinches, not seeming to notice she's awake until she has the sense to scoff.

"It is a comfort to know that if I had a wound, it would go untreated whilst you debate the length of my legs."

Which sets his face on fire and sends him spiraling into a stutter, which Daveth pokes fun at and Jory rolls his eyes at and which she stands and brushes herself off and starts off into the brush, and the others follow and it quickly becomes apparent in the way she walks and takes in every detail (not because she's wise, but because there's lots of the world she's never seen and she's eager to drink it all in) that she's a better leader than Alistair. Jory doesn't say it, Daveth pokes fun at it, but it never needs to be said.

And Morrigan is quite the refreshing bitch, and when they meet Flemeth they realize where she got it from, and they get their treaties and Alistair has a fit about swooping which is actually quite cute and night falls and they make it back to camp and eat some sludgey soup and Alistair and her have a conversation that doesn't end in sullen silence and all is _well_.

And then the Battle of Ostagar decides to come and smash all the happy into bitter flour.


	3. Chapter 3

There's lots of blood.

There's blood after the Joining. Jory's blood. He didn't die of the taint like Daveth, but by Duncan's wickedly curved blade. Resisting orders was apparently a no-no in the Grey Wardens, and so she drank from the cup too.

She had nothing to go back to, which was probably why, in the seconds before she drank the thick, black brew, she didn't really mind if she died.

Alistair gives her a necklace with blood in it and it is rather ugly, but she doesn't say this because he looks more torn up about the deaths than she is.

There's lots of blood on the battlegrounds far below where men slice darkspawn with an efficiency born out of desperation. Duncan's down there, and so is King Cailin. Loghain will join them when she and Alistair light beacon. The flaming boulders that rain down across the walkway make her nervous. Fire in general makes her nervous. So does Alistair's hand on her shoulder, but she'll never admit _that_, and it's mostly probably because templars put their hands on your shoulders right before they took you to the cleansing chamber to be absolved of your 'sins'.

Which is fine, she thinks. Everyone has sins, but not everyone needs an entire chamber to get over them.

The tower is strewn with skinned bodies like shriveled purple flowers. There's more fire in here, and more blood, and more fighting, but she's gotten good at fighting. Ice cools the fire on the floor and the fire in the darkspawn's diseased hearts. Darkspawn are terrible things, she decides. Their bodies took longer to die, longer to rot, and their blood was like black mud and never came out of your clothes. It was hard to believe they were once people, elves, and dwarves. It was not hard to believe they were capable of great destruction.

She kneels to pet a mabari hound that she released to fight alongside her. The pack circles, whining softly as if knowing there is danger afoot. She hugs the beast around the neck and kisses his blood-smeared forehead.

"It's alright, doggie. Things are bad, but they can't stay bad forever."

She doesn't notice Alistair is staring at this display and is very confused. The woman mage he saw take down entire hordes of darkspawn with a deft ice spell is kissing a bloodied mutt on the forehead and cooing to him like a mother would to her child. He does not admit to himself that he actually wishes he was a stinky mabari so that she might pay that attention to him, too.

They bandage their wounds and get more fighting a great ogre. Alistair should be focused on the battle, really, because the thing is at least fifteen feet tall and wider than the lies he used to tell to the Reverend Mother, and there are teeth and claws and spells flying and swords clashing and he can't seem to think about anything else other than how she shoots him disdainful looks. Those are the glances that hurt, but the ones that hurt harder are the distrustful sneers. She never looked at Daveth or Jory like that. He's not a bad guy, is he?

Even as he leaps onto the ogre in one final blow, sinking his blade deep in the beast's throat as they both fall to the floor, he tries to mentally explore the cause of her anger, her hate. He pulls himself off the beast and looks to the party, the two soldiers sitting up slowly from their places fainted on the ground, and Amell wrapping an injury kit around her own arm.

"Let me help you with that –"

When Alistair touches her hand she jumps back three feet and hisses.

"I'm fine."

"When was having a great hole in your arm decided 'fine'? Or was I not around for that announcement?"

She ties the cinch with the help of her teeth and her large green eyes can't meet his own. Her gaze is fixed on the shield he wields, and the Chantry crest emblemized on the front.

It hits him then.

Well, the arrow hits her first. He watches in horror as she falls to the floor with two arrows stuck in her neck, and as an arrow pierces his side the realization he has, among many, (Loghain is pulling his troops out instead of going to help, there are darkspawn swarming up the stairs) that she doesn't like _templars_.

It explains a lot.

Amell watches the world sideways in a pool of her own blood as Alistair struggles to reach her. He collapses. Just a moment before he was complaining about the horrendous smell of the tower.

Sweet scarlet stains her hair and fingers and robes.

She does not mind the smell of blood as much as Alistair does.


	4. Chapter 4

Waking up to Morrigan isn't exactly a treat.

She's sure Morrigan's many boy toys have thought the same thing. She is sure Morrigan has had many lays. Morrigan is a woman who reeks power, and power usually reeks sex on the side. Amell isn't sure if Morrigan herself radiates power, or if it's simply Morrigan's desire for it that she's picking up on.

Either way, Morrigan is hot.

You know, in the 'I'm-definitely-a-straight-girl-but-I-can-appreciate-a-smoking-body-when-I-see-one' kind of way. Her own body is naked save for her smallclothes, and compared to Morrigan's slight, delicate frame, Amell is a pregnant whale. She notes as she gets dressed that Morrigan's breasts are also larger than hers could ever aspire to be.

Life was an unfair Antivan bitch-whore sometimes.

She goes outside and Alistair turns and his eyes are full of relief, sorrow, and a hundred other messy emotions. He looks like he might stride over and hug her, but she hopes he doesn't. He doesn't.

"You're...alive."

"I am." Amell says it but she's looking at Flemeth, not him.

"Don't thank me, girl." Flemeth chuckles. "I only did what the wind told me to."

Alistair looks a little perturbed, but he thanks her anyway. They talk about treaties and Morrigan going with them, which is okay with Amell because every story had to have the wart on it somewhere and Morrigan fit perfectly in that position, even if she was a rather pretty wart.

Amell watches Flemeth because around Flemeth the Fade is strong. She can hear the screaming of distant demons being suppressed by Flemeth's presence alone. The woman leaves a crater in the Fade whenever she laughs. _She_ is power, and Morrigan loves her for it. Morrigan thirsts for it because she was _raised_ by power.

Amell laughs with Morrigan. She can talk with Morrigan, even though the witch throws barbs by the hundreds her way, mages have much to talk about. It surprises Amell when Morrigan turns into a hideous spider right before her eyes. The Circle never talked about this kind of magic, and Morrigan sniffs.

"The Circle is a fool, and only fools ignore the truth." Her feral yellow gaze settles on Alistair. "Speaking of which..."

"Leave me alone." He grumbles, staring at the ground as they walk.

"This is about...Duncan?" Amell asks softly. He doesn't nod, but his chin sinks deeper into his chest. It's an Alistair-shaped yes.

The mabari hound they saved in camp somehow finds them, all drool and intelligent eyes. She names him Duncan. Alistair looks at her with tears in his eyes, and she smiles as kindly as she can.

Alistair likes the dog. Morrigan hates his guts, and Amell adores him. Balance, Amell decides, is a very good thing.

Lothering is full of people who are afraid. Fear hangs like a cloud. People want money, food, medicine, justice, reassurance, and love. Not necessarily in that order. Or maybe in that order.

Looming death is very good at making people truthful, Amell thinks. The real faces are showing. Survival twists and distorts the once-happy community without mercy.

Leliana is redhaired and beautiful and crazy, which is a combination only Amell seems to approve of. She convinces the Reverend Mother (who is a rather unrepentant uptight bitch) to hand over the key to the qunari's cage.

The qunari is beautiful too, in an ashy-skinned, violet-eyed, quietly powerful way. Of course, Amell's praise is immediately regretted as Sten opens his mouth to insult her but she's used to it, and honesty is more refreshing than the eleven years of veiled insults she suffered at the hands of the mages. She prefers being 'doggy' over being 'catty'.

Sten bashes things harder than Alistair, and that is probably also good, because Alistair's pretty-boy face was not as effective as she'd like against scaring darkspawn. Sten has a lip curl and the height to make small children (and most men) pee themselves.

And Amell helps as many people as she can, she finds a boy's mother and gives him in a silver and negotiates for a merchant to lower his exorbitant prices and turns in a locket of a knight and even gathers toxins for a man who wants it on his traps (she doesn't have the heart to tell him darkspawn are highly resistant to poisons and will eat him in his bed before they succumb). She helps a dwarven merchant on her way out.

The darkspawn horde comes when she leaves.

Amell helps a lot of people.

They die anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

Amell now has a merry band following her.

Merry isn't the best word to describe them, really. It's more of a 'drastically-different-people-forced-to-be-together' kind of feel. She likes to think she's the glue between them, the one who can get along with every single one.

Which isn't true, of course, because Morrigan's quips sometimes push her over the edge and she'll yell at the witch of the wilds. Other times Leliana hovers around her so persistently, offering to braid her hair or put a bit of makeup on her face, that she has to make ugly threats that send the bard sniffling. Sten questions her every move and that pisses her off, too, because it wasn't like she wanted to be leader or even really cared about authority or 'doing her duty', she just wanted to put a stop to the darkspawn from killing people, because above all she thought people should be free to die in other ways, too.

Duncan the dog says nothing, and she prefers sometimes to spend her nights talking with him. He wags his tail and licks her face with his tongue that has probably licked his crotch but a poop-and-god-knows-what-else kiss from a dog is preferable sometimes to the stress of dealing with more sentient beings.

Alistair tells her stories when she is tired and she just listens because his voice isn't demanding anything from her. He just likes to blab, he says, and if a pretty girl is listening, that's even better.

Amell lets the pretty girl comment slide, mostly because she doesn't know what to say in kind and mostly because he is wrong.

Redcliffe is just as scared as Lothering was, but Redcliffe is actually being attacked on a nightly basis.

Alistair tells her he's a prince, and she only grins and makes relevant 'bastard' jokes, but when the conversation is done she notices he moves lighter, his shoulders high as though a great weight had been lifted off him.

She rounds up the blacksmith and a mercenary and a few townspeople including the tavern owner with greasy hands and a Loghain spy. A little boy gives her a blade, which she hands reverently to Alistair. The sword sings in the Fade with the pride of one who has slain many dragons.

The old and young and the women bar the doors of the Chantry and Amell steps to destroy every zombie in her path. Morrigan makes a quip about 'here comes dinner' as a diseased, half-rotting corpse shuffles toward them. Alistair shudders beside her, and she is not sure which ot be more concerned about – the fact he thinks Morrigan's serious or the fact his body is close enough for her to feel his shiver. Leliana shoots an arrow and cleanly takes the head off the first one, and the head rolls and hits Amell's feet.

She would shudder if she was a different girl. But she simply steps down on it with her elven boots, hard. The skull gives a satisfying crunch.

"FORWARD!" Amell bellows.

The men rally.

When the sun rises gold and white on the horizon, the causalities are few. The fat tavern master and a youth have died, but many are injured. They will not be able to fight another night. The battle is won and the war all but lost.

Teagan leaves them, and Amell leads the way into the underground passage, where more undead await. The castle is in a horrific mess of blood and overturned crates, and when they reach the dungeon her heart squeezes.

There, in a cell, sits Jowan.

He tells his story, and she can't say she's surprised. She asks him if being free is all its cracked up to be, and he smiles wanly. Alistair frowns and Leliana frowns and both of them are wary of blood mages, with good reason, but Amell releases Jowan anyway. She can't stand to see him in a cage anymore than she could stand to see him trapped in the Tower.

"Death is better than being caged." She says softly. Morrigan shoots her a look, Alistair chokes off a witty reply at the look on Amell's face, and Leliana merely sniffs.

She doesn't like to think that without magic, she would be helpless. She can punch and kick and bite, but without a hex or blizzard at her fingertips, she would be very dead very quickly. This weakness takes up a hefty portion of her thoughts at all times, and it's why she despises templars so. Taking away a person's ability to fight, to defend themselves, was never a very honorable thing.

Connor is the cause. She senses a heavy Fade presence in him, and behind his eyes lurks a demon. When he runs off, Teagan and the sycophant Orlesian Isolde talk options. Jowan offers blood magic as a way out, and Isolde offers herself as a way to save the boy she loves.

"There has to be another way!" Alistair protests, his voice breaking.

"The Circle of Magi could help." Jowan nods. "But the journey is far."

"Taking that risk would mean the village might be attacked again in the night." Leliana sighs. "And the men are in no condition to fight. The village would surely fall."

Amell nods in agreement. Alistair's face falls as he realizes what's about to happen.

"No, Isolde -!"

"I will be fine, Alistair. If it is for Connor and my husband, I fear not death."

Isolde is very pretty when she smiles, Amell thinks.

She dies, and the desire demon within Connor dies with a well-placed ice spell, freezing over the sanguine creature and sending her back to the depths of the Black City.

Redcliffe cleans itself up, licks its own wounds and curls into a corner to sob. Women crying, children crying. Happy crying, sad crying. There are more teardrops than bloodstains. The Urn of Sacred Ashes is the last hope, and a trip to Denerim is required.

Amell does not tell the party that night, gathered around a fire of cheese fondue and fresh fish caught by Sten and Duncan, that she has learned blood magic. She's become what the Tevinter perfected, the world shunned, and the Chantry feared most. She didn't mean to. It had happened almost naturally, but in the Fade she had ripped the very blood from the nubile body of the desire demon. It was part rage at herself for being unable to stop the carnage well enough, part sadness that sacrifices were made to get this far, part self-hate for not being strong enough to stop all those things.

The fish is delicious because Leliana knows her way around herbs and cooking, or at least more than Alistair does.

He yells at her, but she knows she deserves it. She wishes she could yell at herself without coming off as crazy. She doesn't fight his accusations, and his rage fades to be replaced by regret.

She's staring at the ground and crying. He moves to comfort her and realizes she probably does not want a templar's touch. She has made that very clear. He wishes he was something else – a champion, a reaver, anything. Anything that would let him touch her.

She gives a great sniff and watery smile and bids him goodnight quickly before ducking into her tent.

Alistair will stay up with Leliana as she oils her longbow. The bard will ask him prettily why he does not comfort the leader, and he will say nothing and Morrigan will shout from across the field and in many fancy words that he is stupid for hurting his fellow Grey Warden.

He does not shout back that his fellow Grey Warden hurts him with every smile.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: ChampionTheWonderSnail - Thank you. I'm used to only having a few reviews, so don't worry about it. ;)

Darkeyes777 - Thank you very much, you're too kind.

* * *

Amell likes elves better than humans.

This isn't to say she doesn't like humans, but elves have a certain untouchable quality about them that she relates to. This isn't to say, of course, that she instantly likes Zevran, who is all golden hair and slick smiles and a tongue that is agile from other exercise besides talking a lot, she's sure. She likes him.

Leilana mutters something in Orelsian that she's pretty sure translates to 'cut his balls off', and Alistair's mouth falls open when Amell announces she accepts the elf's deal. Sten in the back simply rolls his eyes. Sten is the only one Zevran doesn't tease as insistently – probably because Sten could roll the lithe elf up and bounce him like a toy ball. Not without a lot of struggle, of course, and a lot of accidental touching, hugs, and...

Amell shakes her head and blushes furiously, glad for once that she leads the group by striding in the front.

"My dear, your ears are quite a lovely shade of red." Zevran comments.

"You leave her alone you...little git." Alistair says.

"Grey Warden requirements do not include saber wit, I see." The elf drawls, throwing a dagger and catching it again by the handle as he walks, which is quite a feat in itself. Amell stops to watch for a moment, and Zevran smirks and throws up two daggers at a time.

"Show off. Who cares about...flippy swords?" Alistair growls.

"The blades are small." Sten grunts. "Flipping them is no great accomplishment."

"Size is not all that matters, Sir Stoic." Zevran winks. Amell's face bursts into flame again, and her eyes slide over and meet Alistair's, who is similarly red-faced, in a complete accident, and she's the first one to look away almost violently and start off at a fast pace on the road.

The Dalish are different than Zevran. They are quiet, and proud, and treat us with all the suspicion of a three-headed darkspawn. Zathrian is more full of pride than all of them put together, but the woods are calm and cool and his voice is level.

"Will you aide us, Warden?"

Of course she will. The wounded in camp are screaming, and Amell ignores Morrigan's insults, Alistair's comments that she is pretty and Zevran's flattery, but she does not ignore screams of pain and pleads to die quickly. It's not that she is not especially kind, she's just sensitive to the noise and wants it to stop.

The werewolves are huge and thick with fur matted with blood and briars. She puts one out of its misery, but not before it gives her a memnto to return to the Dalish camp and the werewolves husband.

Amell cries.

The forest is a beautiful canopy of emerald and topaz, sun filtering through the leaves and gently sending diamond sparks to fly off the tops of the river.

"I admired the Dalish as a young man." Zevran chuckles, kneeling beside her as they fill up their water skins.

"Is that why you have the tattoos?" Amell asks. He sniggers.

"I thought they were the pinnacle of rebellion. I wanted to do something the Crows would not like, and I knew a good tattooer in the city who knew Dalish designs."

When he sees her dark-haired head tilt in confusion, he smiles.

"The Crows want us to blend in, not stand out, and people are more likely to remember a Dalish with face tattoos than a simple city elf, no?"

She nods. The Crows are very smart, she thinks, and she doesn't want to meet them ever again if she can help it.

"You are afraid of him, yes?"

Green eyes shoot up from the river. Zevran's smile grows more cat-like.

"You are a mage, and he is a templar. It is not unlike a Crow and a noble – one is trained to kill the other and so the noble is constantly wary."

"I'm stronger than him." She asserts, voice unfaltering.

"Oh, yes. You are much stronger than him. You prick your finger on a sharp side of your staff every time you cast a spell, is that not right? I wonder, do most mages have such a tic?"

His eyes crinkle in the corners. "Worry not, fair Warden. Your secret is safe with me. I know of the fear that surrounds a blood mage. It is the same fear that surrounds a Crow, but it is much deeper rooted, _primal_. If you wanted to, you could overwhelm many such templars as Alistair without much worry. You are stronger than him, yes. You are weak _to_ him, as well."

Amell wonders briefly how he knows so much, but the elf simply laughs as they walk back ot join Sten and Alistair.

"I am a Crow. We either see details or perish for _not_ seeing them."

It's true. Her hands are full of tiny scratches from where she draws blood to fuel her spells. She has a particular deep gash across the back of her hand that she hides with her sleeve and keeps wet and scabbed. She can dig into it at any time. Sometimes she can get away with using the blood from throats slit by the blades of her party.

The werewolves are desperate in the same way she saw the humans be desperate at Ostagar. The Lady of the Wood has an intense presence, much like Flemeth, but considerably weaker than the old woman's.

This is not to say the Lady is weak. The Lady is the forest – she is strong and eternal. Zathrian is bound to her as she is bound to him. She explains their plight, but Amell didn't really need to know. The story was well and good, but she'd rather people just told her what she could do to help straight away.

Suffering was a thing she didn't like much.

The vial of memories gives her strength. She finds swords much easier to lift, and armor becomes tolerable. She prefers her mage robes, still, and the freedom it gives. Zevran says he enjoys her mage robes more too, especially since her current pair cuts low in the front and exposes most of her chest. The slits up the legs don't help any in keeping the lecherous elf on track. Alistair has taken to 'bumping' Zevran 'accidentally' with his shield and she has no idea why, (mayhap Zevran had a persistent insect in his hair?) but it seems Sten knows all and watches on with a weary, half-angry gaze.

Zathrian doesn't agree to negate the curse without putting up a fight, first, but when he fades in a flash of light and the Lady disappears into the air as a curtain of fireflies, something in the forest's air shifts, falling into place like the spokes of two wheels. The puzzle is complete – the tear in the Veil slowly starts to heal. The werewolves – who are now elves and people again – have white-green eyes the same color the Lady's skin had been.

Lanaya is Keeper.

Amell speaks to the shy elf boy in the corner, and he points out his redhead love. Alistair watches from afar (as he always does, really, but this time its legitimate because the elven smith is mending his gauntlets and is waiting at the counter). The youth's face changes with every word the mage speaks, and with color blooming rosy in his cheeks, he mounts a frontal assault and walks up and kisses the redhead girl. Amell is watching, and when their lips meet she gives a little giggle that he finds adorable, and then she gives a little sigh that he finds heartbreaking.

When she walks up to the smith, he keeps his gaze on the wooden mask hanging on the smith's cart.

"I...uhm." She starts. "May I see your wares?"

The smith smiles. "Certainly!"

She inspects poultices (all of which are far below Morrigan's poultice-making skills), and poisons (all of which are far inferior to her own skill in making poisons) and when she finally works up the courage to look at him from over she shoulder she stumbles over her words.

"T-Thank you."

"For what?" Alistair looks at her with surprise.

"When that living tree wrapped its vines around me...you hacked through them to free me."

He turns scarlet and he swears that it's the millionth time today. "I just...you're very small and slender. You would've broken in two if it went on much longer. Snap! Just like that. Although perhaps a little squelchier sounding."

She laughs. She _laughs_. She isn't lost in thought, or absently staring off into the distance, or nodding disinterestedly or snarling at him. She's _happy_ at what he said.

She's happy at his words which were about her body breaking in half. Scary. Scary and worrisome, but also a little charming that she doesn't think him a sick freak.

They have the most entertaining night at camp – for this is the first time Morrigan has had the pleasure of meeting Zevran. The others (including Bodahn, the dwarven merchant) have taken bets on how long it will take before Morrigan tries to smite him where he stands with a spell. They watch with bated breath when Zevran minces over to the witch's tent.

Frowns. Sneers. Laughing. Laughing. Short quip. Short nod. Long pause. Big boom.

Zevran barely dodges the pillar of fire.

The camp grumbles. Leliana smiles like a kitten with a dish of milk as she holds out her hands and lets the gold pieces fall into them. Sore loser Sten chucks his gold piece into a bush just to make it harder for her.

"What will you buy?" Amell asks. Leliana whispers in her ear, and Amell flushes bright red.

"F-For me?"

"Of course! I am tired of seeing you in those filthy white smallclothes. They are so plain and unbecoming!"

Amell wants her money back immediately right now please and thank you.


	7. Chapter 7

Denerim is a fat cow.

She says this mostly because the city is huge. That's the fat part. The cow part works in a little later, once she finds out how many people actually need her help.

Twenty-nine. Give or take a few.

And twenty-nine is a lot.

She cleans up bodies, gathers herbs, gathers love letters, steals from this one haughty bitch in the town square (a tiara, not bad), and she even sweeps up some drunken mercenaries in the local brothel.

While she talked the men down, Zevran snuck off somewhere, and when she looks back to ask Morrigan where the elf is, she jerks her thumb to a room down the hall. The room from which the loudest moaning is coming. Alistair hides his face in his hands but his skin is red down to the roots of his hair.

Which is not all from Zevran's doing, he admits. It's also a little to do with the fact a particularly pretty human female is rubbing up against him, and she has dark brown hair just like his fellow Grey Warden and if he squints he can almost imagine –

He shakes his head like a worm's attached to the top, claps his hands firmly on the whore's shoulders, and sits her down in a chair. She laughs and licks her lips. Amell smiles and tips the whore half a silver for the information on the room in the back that contains Loghain's men. Morrigan points out to the owner of the brothel, Sanga, that lip-licking is a sign of parasitic disease.

Corpses, interestingly, don't bother Sanga. Which is precisely what they leave behind in the Pearl. Loghain's trap for any remaining Grey Wardens was flawless save for the fact that it _sucked_. They nearly leave Zevran behind too, but he comes out running with his pants half on and the whore screeching behind him. It takes a special kind of sexual fiend to make a whore mad.

They stop in the Wonders of Thedas, and the tranquil owner shows artifacts and high-quality staves to Morrigan and Amell, both women completely absorbed.

"You'd think they'd be shopping for shoes, or something more...feminine. Magic scrambles about a woman's priorities, no?" Zevran looks to Alistair, who's eyeing a few books and baubles.

"I wouldn't know."

"Ah, dear Alistair, but you would! You have that strange magic as well."

"It's not magic. It's _Fade manipulation_."

"You say dra_gen_fruit, I say dra_gon_fruit." He shrugs. Alistair makes a noise in his throat as the tranquil holds up a robe to Amell's body that has even less fabric than her current one.

"D-Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

Zevran looks up. "You may ask, but I may choose not to answer."

"Have you...had very many women in your time? I mean, you seem like the kind of man who would."

Zevran shrugs. "Perhaps. I have had many things, and women are one of them."

The gauntlets of his fingers bump against a small statuette of a swan. "Right. Well...how do you...woo them? Is there a t-technique? Or..."

"Woo them?" Zevran stares at his russet-haired compatriot, and then laughs. "Are you quite serious?"

"Er...yes?"

"So let me get this straight. You have never wooed? Not once? You are woo-less, as it were?"

"Nevermind. Bad idea. Forget I asked." The ex-templar shakes his head and the assassin smiles like a lion descending on a gazelle.

"You are, I presume, asking this because a member of our intrepid party...whets your interest?"

Alistair fumbles with the swan statue and nearly drops it, but manages to catch it with all the grace of a legless mabari.

"Is it Morrigan? Should I pray for your soul in case she eats it?"

"I'm n-not –"

"Surely it is not Leliana, she is far too playful and experienced for someone like you. No, a man of your typeappreciates a woman with strength. A leader. Someone who will tie you up and make you beg for –"

"Maker's breath!" Hands clap over ears.

"But I am quite unsure your fellow Grey Warden knows how to tease a man so delicately. She skips tease and goes straight to torture. Have you _seen_ the way she fondles the handle of her staff –"

"Zevran!" He groans painfully.

"Do you remember that moment in the elven ruins when you'd been slashed? You, understandably, were losing blood and close to delirious, and she was flustered and being rushed. Sten was keeping lookout like the good giant statue he is, and I was helping our poor leader to stop the bleeding."

Alistair's hands come off his ears a bit, curious as to whether the assassin was actually having the beginnings of a serious conversation with him.

"Your armor broke, and we had to take it off so the heal spell would be more effective. Armor, chainmail, undershirt. It's when we got to the undershirt that she started getting quite nervous. Fumbling, cursing, wide eyes. It was charming; she was supposed to be saving your life and yet was embarrassed. A woman who freezes ogres in their tracks – embarrassed about a bare chest!"

Alistair is now wincing at every word. "She's...sheltered."

"She has seen me quite without garments, because I abhor the things. Those mage towers are full of..._revelry_. She has seen many a man's chest, I assure you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alistair puffs up.

"Simply that she has never become embarrassed by any of them until now."

Alistair flusters and opens his mouth to argue and then it slowly dawns on him. Very slowly.

"Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'."

Gentivi's house and the imposter Waylen leads to one place – Haven. On the way, it is decided (shouted about over the camp fire) that they will stop at the Circle and conscript the mages. They pass right by the Tower, and it makes sense to.

It makes _sense_.

Amell's stomach still churns at the thought of it. Her stomach churns harder when Leliana pulls her into the forest a ways away and opens the wrapped purchase to reveal a tiny, pale-blue gossamer nightgown. It is lacy and lightweight and see-through and..._frightening_.

She refuses, of course, but Leliana is a rogue and she knows how to take a simple mage's robe off with startling speed and efficiency.

"I-I don't even know how to wear it -! Leliana, stop!"

Leliana does not stop, because if Amell truly wanted to stop she would've done some mage-y thing and put Leliana out of commission. Or so the bard's rationale goes.

"It looks lovely on you." She sighs when the gown is on. "I got the exact right size."

"How did you know?"

Leliana winks. "I guessed. I have quite the penchant for guessing another woman's measurements."

"I...thank you." Amell smiles. "I'm a little cold, so –"

She reaches to take her robes out of Leliana's hands, and the bard leans in and kisses her. On the lips. With tongue.

And it is some great ironic joke of the Maker's that Alistair walks in to round them up for dinner and sees them like that. He covers his mouth and whirls around and squeezes his eyes together tight, then turns back around to make sure this isn't the best dream he's ever had. Or the worst. He can't decide.

He waits (oh god, he _waits_) until Leliana pulls away to squeak. "A-hem. D-Dinner is...r-ready."

He scuttles off and Leliana smiles and Amell's face falls as she explains she doesn't quite like Leliana like that, and the bard nods.

"I know. Consider it...my payment for the nightdress."

When she turns away her Orlesian features are hurt. Amell feels bad.

Amell feels bad most of the time, though, so it is really nothing new.


	8. Chapter 8

Amell does not get heartbroken.

She's seen it in other people, of course. Her fellow mages were always involved with each other in some way or another, and she's seen them cry into their pillows and write in poorly hidden journals about their 'burning feeling of loss'. She's comforted some of them peripherally, not stopping to invest too much time in them, of course. They had years, their whole _lives_, to get invested in each other.

After all, there was no escaping the Circle.

The Tower.

Your own mage blood.

You could slice the back of your hand up a lot, like she did. You could let blood as often as you wanted, and maybe the old blood would do some good (it does some good, you use the power for healing spells on occasion), and maybe the new blood that grew in its place would make you _better_. She had theories.

But she'd never been heartbroken.

To some degree, Amell thinks it might be akin to the feeling she gets when she steps back into the Tower. There's the smell of burning flesh, and cold metal. It's a smell she's become all too familiar with since leaving.

The smell of war.

The sight of so many templars in once place after being so free from them makes her queasy.

Greagoir is broken. He is a man broken. The stress of the attack shows in every blood smeared stain of his face. He was a man designed to kill mages and end abominations, but not so many. Not all at once. Not children.

She offers help, and he takes it. Because he is broken and down to his last few men and doesn't know what else to do.

When the templars close the doors behind with them a screeching thump, she nearly gets sick to her stomach. Not being trapped in here. Not again.

Sten shrugs in his armor, getting used to the new red steel plates. "In accordance with the Qun, mages in Serrahon have their tongues cut out. If this Tower had followed such practices, this could have been prevented."

"Could you be ANY more insensitive?" Alistair asks disbelievingly.

Duncan barks and runs around with a discarded piece of cloth hanging from his maw.

"I wouldn't mind." Amell tempers her gags at the smell of the bodies splayed in the corridors. "I don't find talking very useful, anyway."

There are some bodies still clinging to bedposts. Alistair looks like he wants to say something, but doesn't. She's fought abominations in the wild, but not many. The come in hordes.

Wynne is the same white haired picture of serenity, though her face is wrinkled with concern. She tells Duncan to wait with the other mages and the children, thinking a mabari war dog that could rip throats out from abominations and cuddle with the frightened children ideal for the situation.

There are memories.

They float through the stench and soot and debris like twisted, malignant things. She saw them through a lens made of blood and sadness.

The fellow blood mage, she lets escape. Blood magic has wrought this mess, and a thirst for power.

Blood magic will fix it.

She slices and slices and slices, her hand pouring, and after a particularly hard battle she collapses to her knees and doesn't cover her hand quickly enough with her sleeve. Alistair helps her up and sees it, sees the red and the way the cut is now nigh permanent, sees the layers of scar tissue broken into over and over and over.

He starts asking questions, hoarsely. A sting of unending questions. Who could she stand it? How did she hide it this long from him? Why did she choose to be one?

"You were a blind rat if you did not see it." Sten grunts and wipes the blood from his sword on a nearby statue of Andraste (rather ironically, Amell notes despite her fatigued haze). Alistair bristles, ready to yell, but the look in Wynne's eyes quiets him and he looks around at all the bodies as if sensing that all his opposition is out of place.

"We should move." Amell croaks, downing a health poultice Wynne hands her. "I can sense a heavy fade presence beyond this door."

As they walk there are a line of women burnt into the wall. The same age as Amell. She knows their faces, even in death.

This nearly breaks her. She collapses to her knees and drops her staff (a mage never drops her staff. You are to hold your staff until you die, but in a way she has). She grew up with them. She knew the shape of their smiles. She was never good friends without anyone, but who really was good friends with their family?

She realizes, a little too late, that she left more behind in the Circle than her hate for it.

Sloth is slow, and convincing, like heavy honey and cream.

The blackness of sleep, of rest, is nice.

It is like dying.

Duncan, the real Duncan, greets her with open arms, and it is then she knows something is wrong. Duncan is guarded, smart. Duncan never gave hugs.

And she finds Niall, who she always looked up to as a good mage and a good man, and she transforms into many people, many beasts, And she saves Wynne from her guilt, and Sten from his guilt, and she saves Alistair from his family.

The happy smile - the great, buttery, beautiful smile on his face - almost convinces her to leave him. She would miss him, of course, but he looks happier than any trip to the Wonders of Thedas could ever make. Happier than if Duncan himself came back from the dead.

And she breaks his heart and saves him from himself all in three seconds.

In a way, she thinks, it's poetic. She's never liked poetry, or books at all, really. She'd rather do things instead of read about them, because she is curious and annoying in that regard, but this trip to the Fade is poetic.

Sloth is trying to help them. _Ease_ their _suffering_.

She only kills him because she has a Blight to stop.

And then she meets Cullen.

Sweet, coppery-haired Cullen is now deformed by fear, loathing, fatigue, and hate. He screams at her, admits that the demons can torture him very effectively with images of her, images of her with her mage robe half off, half down –

She tries to talk to him softly, tries to make her voice as convincing as possible. She kneels down and presses her hands to the barrier and cries with him, for them, for their lost innocence, for the world facing the Blight, facing death, facing _loss_.

Yes, she thinks. This is heartbreak.

Uldred gets the brunt of her fury. Niall's litany saves them, saves many mages. Saves them all in a way she never thought possible – Irving and Greagoir smile at each other even though the First Enchanter is wheezing and even though the Knight Commander is shaking on legs far too tired to stand anymore.

They are smiling for a split second at each other.

Templars bury mages. Mages bury templars. Templars pray for mages and their safe passage into the afterlife. Mages bring the weary templars food.

Alistair stops her in camp, before she can head to the small lake to bathe.

"I...I'm sorry."

For yelling, he thinks. For just standing by as you cried in the Tower. For knowing nothing about you. For being _jealous_ of a _broken templar_ with coppery hair in middle of a _crisis_.

He doesn't say the last bit, of course.

She smiles, smeared with dirt and sweat and blood over her collarbone.

"It's okay. There's still lots to do, you know?"

He nods, and lets out a breath that is relieved, and bows out and excuses himself and thumbs the rose he picked from Lothering.

It's red, bright red, and he asks Wynne to enchant it so it never dies.

He wonders about a lot of things. The treaties, their plans and tactics, the great overgrown lizard flying about and making a mess of things...but never about her. He doesn't wonder about her.

He just feels happy.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thank you for all your wonderful reviews, favs, and alert adds. Those are what keep this story going. :)

* * *

Amell has been avoiding Leliana.

She knows this. A part of her hates herself for it, but when an attractive woman you looked up to as an older sister kissed you passionately, you generally started to second guess your ability to give off the correct _signals_. She thinks Leliana wonderful, she thinks everybody wonderful but she just never says it. Saying what you feel isn't always good, she's learned.

If she was a braver 19-year-old, she would probably speak her mind a lot. She would be brilliant and bright and courageous, stepping onto the battlefield with fire brimming in her eyes and flying from her hands.

Real heroes used fire. Inspired fire in others. Purged evil in a cleansing flame.

Amell uses ice.

What does this make her? She thinks about this constantly. Morrigan uses fire, but her fire is purple and black like the darkness of night. Nothing about it is noble. Wynne has a rudimentary fire spell or two, and her fire is a graceful frost-colored blue.

When Morrigan teaches her to use her first fire spell, the flames come out white. Not a hint of color in them, just a burning, light gray, like the color of the slushy piles of snow shoved aside on the road.

Shoved aside.

Alistair shoves her aside many times. He takes arrows for her, takes spells for her, does his best to use his templar abilities far from her sensing range. He shoves her aside sometimes when she was on the brink of death – a thrown blade coming toward her, a swarm of bees from an emissary's staff.

The gesture is sweet, she supposes. She doesn't bother to tell him she has a shell around her at all times, courtesy of her arcane warrior training. In battle, she always has one fot in the Fade, and no physical projectile can hit her.

She's a _ghost_. A grayfire ghost.

So she does her best to mend her relationship with Leliana. They find that she's being chased by an old enemy – Marjolaine, which sounds suspiciously a lot like the word margarine, and that makes Amell hungry, but she doesn't say any of that. They will hunt Margari-_Marjolaine_. Yes. Her.

The village of Honnleath is close to Haven, and they stop there to resupply, but find the place in ruins alongside a golem named Shale. Shale comes with them, and oddly enough there are very few birds in the sky as they travel with the caustic, apathetic golem at their side.

Shale is funny.

Amell likes her.

Haven is cold.

Amell likes it.

Her ice spells draw on nature itself, multiplying tenfold in the frosty mountain village. When they find the bloody altar there's only a moment of silence. It's a moment Amell has learned to recognize – the calm before the storm.

When they step outside the village erupts like a hive of angry bees. Crazy, religious bees, but bees nonetheless.

Neither Alistair nor Wynne take any great pride in slaughtering unarmed villagers, but the cultists are driven to rip their throats out. Shale, on the other hand, enjoys crushing everything in sight, as usual. Her pride is unlimited, and battle gives her satisfaction. (And probably a reason to live, but Amell doesn't try to dwell on that too much, because in that way she's become the same as Shale).

The chantry is full of armed guards, and a mage bent on being a homicidal xenophobe.

Which is ironic, Amell thinks, because a homicidal xenophobe was in Denerim at this same moment, acting like the king.

Brother Gentivi is near dead. His wound festers, and Wynne's healing skills bring him back from the edge. He wakes a new man, bent on finding the Urn, which, for their purposes, is awfully handy.

The temple is full of warriors who use pain to fight, and they contrast the heavenly, decrepit temple well. Winter light slants in through the cracks in the ceilings and walls, and pillars of ice stand like grand statues of diamond.

She touches the pillars and lays her cheek against one, the cold seeping into her bones comfortingly frigid. Numbing.

Being numb is good, she thinks.

Her blood as she weaves magic stains the ground. Wynne is here to help her heal, and she's grateful. The woman is bound to a powerful Fade spirit. She is closer to death than any of them, even her and Alistair with their thirty years left. It makes her a better healer.

When the guardian asks Amell the question about Jowan, she simply smiles at him, and if we could look into the guardian's head he would think to himself that the cold resignation in her heart is refreshing.

The illusion that wears Jowan's face smiles, and Amell smiles back at it, too.

She doesn't like words.

They fight themselves. Symbolically, they are stronger than themselves.

The bridge materializes and the fire springs to life and they all carefully disrobe as Shale wryly comments that she is superior for not having to, and Amell laughs a little behind her hand and strides through the fire and laughs harder when it tickles her skin.

It's cold.

Alistair tries not to look. He tries so hard his eyes are watering. Or maybe that's the fire. The fire is pleasantly warm to him, but the fumes are making his eyes water. Yes, that's it. The fumes, not the way her breasts –

THIS IS A HOLY TEMPLE ALISTAIR, GET IT TOGETHER. Is what he thinks very loudly. And mercifully he can't, and mercifully their clothes magically fade onto their bodies again and he can breathe again.

The urn glows, and the whole room hums with the deep, soft power of peace. Amell can feel it in her bones and she never really believed in the Maker, they were taught to, but she never really accepted it into her heart. Mass was an annoying event that took place every Sunstide, the priests were simpering, weak willed hypocrites, and the Reverend Mother was a power hungry old biddy intent on making mage life hell just because she _could_.

When Amell looks at the Urn, no great warmth fills her. She is not weeping in silent awe like Wynne, nor is she bowing her head and reciting small chants like Alistair is. Shale leans against the banister and rolls her golem eyes as best she can.

When Amell looks at the Urn, she does not see a holy icon. She does not see the remnants of a spiritual bride to the Maker, a war goddess, a leader of armies. No stories come ot her mind, none of Andraste's great tales resound in her head.

She merely sees a woman who loved, lived, and died.

She can respect that.

Gentivi leaves with them, but splits at the road to head home to Denerim with a travelling merchant band.

They heal Eamon.

When he wakes he orders his men about and makes plans and pours over tactics and takes little to eat or drink. Only when Amell finds him in his study, is he crying silently into his arms.

Only in the dark of night does he allow himself a moment to grieve.

She senses great strength in him – a strength born of experience. He wipes his eyes hastily and asks her if she needs more guards, and where are the others, and is the food to your liking?

No guards. The others are eating. Yes, I like the lamb.

She doesn't wait for him to say anything. She doesn't say anything, in fact, and he drinks in the silence gratefully.

He smiles blearily and excuses himself and retires to his room. He drops an amulet on the ground on his way out.

When she gives it to Alistair, he nearly starts crying too. She keeps quiet, trying not to do anything that will make him break down, but he lunges forward and wraps he rin a strong hug.

"T-Thank you. I never would've known he cared this much about me o-otherwise." He sniffs.

"Ah, Alistair. Breathing is...important to me." She gasps and he swears and lets her drop.

"Maker, I didn't mean to –"

"It's fine. I'm glad you like it."

His skin tints with a blush, and he pulls something from his pack – a velvety rose.

And he clumsily blathers on about where he found it and how he got Wynne to enchant it and how it reminded him of her, and he's pretty sure at any moment she's going to laugh at him and throw it in his face and call him a dirty templar, because that's what he is, really, a templar who has this horrid filthy thoughts about her at the worst times –

She looks up at him with wide deer eyes.

She knows that the old Amell probably would have pushed it back into his hands and blushed and walked away immediately. She would then fester doubt and resentment, thinking he could never really like a mage and that she could never really like a templar, but the new Amell knows better.

He sees the confusion in her eyes.

"I-It's a stupid gift, I know." Alistair starts. "Really, really thick of me. You don't even like girly things. You probably hate it. You can j-just throw it away." He forces a smile. "Here, give it."

He takes it from her cold fingers and chucks it as far as he can into the woods.

"There!" He turns back. "That's much better."

"Alistair!" Wynne calls. "Where's the firewood I asked for?"

And he runs off to help the older mage and Amell will stand there for a while, trying to process things. When dinner comes around she's very late, and she settles in her bowl of chowder and Leliana makes fun of the sticks and leaves in her hair and picks them out gingerly. Alistair makes it a point to avoid making eye contact with her, lest he burst into flames of embarrassment and utter stupidity.

What had possessed him to think to give it to her? Just because he'd been thinking about it for the last few weeks didn't give him permission to do it. What had he been expecting? A smile? A blush? Those were stupid to expect from a strong woman.

But he would've liked to see them. Very much so.

They pack up camp. Amell looks for the rose until the very end, but even with magic she never finds it.

Alistair is polite and short with her. He still jumps in front of arrows and spells to catch them for her, but he does it with more fervor than ever before. He hits the ground hard, and bleeds harder. He doesn't seem to care how badly he gets hurt. He seems almost _happy_ he's getting hurt.

Amell is sad to see him like this.

Amell wonders why.


	10. Chapter 10

Dwarves are the _best._

Technically it's their ale that's the best. The strong black brew made of fungus gets her drunk quicker than any wine made from frilly Ferelden vineyards. Amell giggles and rests her head on the bar and many of the Orzammar denizens in the pub seem enchanted with her tales of darkspawn slaying. They've killed many darkspawn themselves, of course, but the fact that she is tall and beautiful is perhaps what makes her stories different. That and the fact she's wearing one of the 'Indecent Cloth Demons', as Alistair so fondly calls her low-cut robes.

Zevran takes it upon himself to walk her back to the inn.

They're going to set out after Branka in the morning with Oghren, who Zevran thinks a smelly, rather enchanting oaf. It's not such an uncommon title - Zevran also thinks this of Sten, Alistair, and the dog, Duncan. Anyone in their party with dangly bits between their legs, really.

He believes himself the most refined man in camp – the others bash and bite and can't throw a dagger in a graceful arc to save their life. Neither can they seduce. Duncan did manage to woo a passing female mabari in Denerim. Zevran gives the dog credit for the daring location (the public marketplace, of all places!), and quick dismount.

As he walks into the inn, Amell draped over his back with her feet dragging, Alistiar starts up from his place at the table and storms over.

"Where was she? What did you do?"

"I did not poison her, if that is what you're implying. She is simply a lightweight who drank far too much dwarven ale."

Alistair shakes his head and motions to hand her over. Zevran shrugs her off and watches as the templar carries her into the room she's sharing with Morrigan.

"Should I leave the premises, or am I to be allowed the pleasure of watching?" The wilds witch drawls, flipping through a book with feigned interest.

"If nugs could fly, Morrigan. If nugs could fly." Alistair grumbles. He places Amell on the bed, and Zevran leans in the doorway as he and Morrigan watch Alistair inhale sharply a few times.

"Should I help you? I'm quite well versed in relieving others of the garments. And their lives. But mostly their garments." Zevran raises a fine gold eyebrow. Alistair flinches.

"She'll be fine like that –"

Morrigan rolls her eyes. "Shrink any further into yourself, Alistair, and we'll be looking for you among the bread crumbs on this filthy floor."

"For once, could you just –"

"I will do it." The witch stands. "Get out, both of you."

Alistair flushes and closes the door behind him. He makes his way stiffly to the table, where a half-finished plate of bronto steak waits. Zevran joins him, drinking from his water skin.

"Our lovely leader was in quite a state of disrepair."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alistair says moodily, stabbing the bronto a little too hard.

"There are only two reasons a woman like her, who has never touched a drink in her life and has refused to on many occasions, drinks herself to blackout in a back alley Orzammar tavern alone; She's hard trying to forget something bad, or she's hard trying to remember something good."

Alistair doesn't say anything. Zevran smiles and shifts in the Antivan leather boots she gave him earlier that day.

She has given gifts to so many, but they do not often know what to get her. Most everyone at camp saw Alistair present her with the rose that was then unceremoniously thrown into the bushes by the contrarian templar himself, but that's the extent of it. Wynne has given her a lovely mage cap she knitted herself, and Amell wears the hideous purple thing like it's the most stylish Orlesian cap in the world. Leliana cringes every time the two loose flaps wave about the mage's face.

Sten has given Amell the title of kadan, which, whenever the qunari says it, sends a wave of light dancing across the mage's face. Morrigan acts as her mentor and almost-sister, and the attachment in itself speaks volumes – the witch hates every single one of them save for Amell. Leliana has given Amell enough makeovers to have the mage's face looking new every day. Oghren has only given her lewd comments, and Shale has managed to be scathing enough to make her laugh loud, something she rarely does.

Zevran has not given her anything.

This doesn't bother him as much as it should. He's cared for no one enough to give them presents. But she keeps showering him with the small silver bars that he loves so much, and managed to find both a replica of his mother's gloves and a pair of genuine Antivan boots. He's not sure if she's a darkspawn-slaying Grey Warden or an eccentric treasure hunter.

He gives her a shortbow he found called the Mage's Eye. It's a bow designed for combat mages, and he knows that she is something called an arcane warrior – Wynne tried to explain the fine points of what it was once, but he was far too busy staring at her wonderful bosom to pay attention.

She smiles and thanks him with that calm, cool, delighted smile.

The Deep Roads are stuffy.

Their leader has a massive hangover, and she moans and clutches the stone walls every so often for support. She vomits once – doubling over the lava gutters and watching as her puke hits the molten rock and instantly turns to ash.

She wipes her mouths and straightens. "That's handy."

Oghren laughs. "Why'd you think we keep that shit around the city? Does a better job of cleaning up after a dwarven binge than a bronto with a sweeper skirt on."

"A...what?" Alistair looks confused and lost.

The Deep Roads are laced with lyrium, and when they stop for a lunch of moldy bread and hard cheese, Amell touches Alistair's shoulder gently.

"Are you alright?"

"Yup." He suddenly takes great interest in crumbling the cheese.

"I just...there's a lot of lyrium, and templars get addicted so easily, even from the vapors –"

"I'm fine." He sniffs.

He is not fine. He starts sweating, wobbling. They meet a young dwarf addled by lyrium, and he points and laughs at the templar.

"You...you're getting full of blue sparklies! Just like me!"

Alistair's eyes roll into the back of his head and falls nearly on top of Oghren, who just manages to sidestep the impact. The sound of armor hitting stone is screeching and terrible. Amell rushes to set up a small apothecary set.

"Oghren, give me your ale pouch."

"Woman, do I look like a barmaid? This ale is for me –"

"Give me the pouch." Her voice doesn't raise a single notch, but in fact lowers. The deadly quality is dark and evident.

"I would, if I was you." Zevran smirks over at the dwarf, who grunts and does so.

"Zev, do you have any deathroot on you?"

"Oh, are we killing him now? Lovely. I've waited for this day for a long time." The elf fishes dried root from his side pack. She takes it and pounds it into the bit of ale with a mortat and pestle.

"This poison will bind with the lyrium in his blood. It will take a few minutes, but it won't be pretty. In the meantime you two should scout ahead, see where the darkspawn are and plot a course around them to the thaig."

Zevran nods. "That is a sound plan. If you would accompany me then, my darling drunkard?" He looks to the dwarf, who growls and hefts his axe a little higher.

When the two are a safe distance away, Oghren grunts.

"So does she baby that kid like this all the time?"

"She babys no one, least of all him. Lately, though, she has seemed to take a great interest in his well being."

"She wants to bone 'im."

"I would assume so."

There's a comfortable silence as they watch the darkspawn scurry around a fire in the distance.

"He's King Maric's bastard son."

"Is that so?"

"A teryn has plans to make him king."

"Well isn't that something."

The silence stretches. Oghren shakes his head.

"Don't you upper worlders hate mages? You stick 'em in those tall stone buildings, right? They can't marry or have families."

"Right."

"She's a mage."

"Yes."

"And he's gonna be a king or somethin'."

"Most likely."

"They should hurry up and get to humpin', then."

"You, my dear dwarf, are quite the master of eloquent deduction."

Alistair sneezes and fights back another round of vomit. Amell borrows a crude bowl of Ruck's, and the dwarf watches with great interest in their interactions from afar. Alistair hurls into it and wipes his chin.

"As usual, Alistair," He mumbles to himself, "You have fantastic timing."

"This wasn't your fault." Amell reminds him. "I should've warned you sooner –"

He hurls again. She passes him a cloth and he takes it with a flushed kind of shame.

"You don't have to stay."

She smiles. "I want to make sure you get better."

"Well you don't have to watch me puke my way to it. In case you didn't notice, it's foul smelling and sort of disgusting and I'm sort of embarrassed about it."

"Oh." She stands in sudden understanding and turns away.

The sound of his retching subsides a little, and between spasms he watches her back as she talks with Ruck. The dwarf smiles and plays with her hair – so far gone in the head from darkspawn taint that he sometimes can't form words and has to gesture instead.

His mother is waiting for him back in Orzammar, and Amell promises, at Ruck's teary insistence, to tell her he's dead.

"I liked the rose."

Alistair stops. Everything in him stops – the spasms and his breathing and his thinking.

"I just...didn't know how to react. A rose is the traditional symbol for love and friendship. That's what the botany textbooks say, anyway. It was quite stupid to assume you were giving it to me for the former reason. I realized later you were giving it to me as a friend."

Everything in him sinks.

"Thank you." She smiles. "I'm honored that you think of me so highly."

When they fight the broodmother, when they hear the haunting song of death and rape, her blood freezes. She grows subzero. She tries to numb herself to the horrible realization that when she turns in thirty years, she'll be this grotesque thing squirting out babies that will kill and pillage and scour the world as another blight.

Alistair will become a Hurlock.

How many Grey Wardens are among the darkspawn they cut through now?

Branka is insane in the most practical of ways. Amell is also a practical woman.

She still destroys the Anvil.

Carridan gives her a crown to take back, and she anoints Bhelen. Even when Bhelen orders the execution of his rival Harrowmont, she does not doubt her choice. Bhelen may be ruthless, willing to kill to set things in motion, and calculatingly clever, but so is she. She is no different.

Oghren comes with them. He stops before the doorstep, looking out into the vast snowy sky like a child seeing the world for the first time. She puts a hand on his shoulder and he grins around his fiery red beard.

He falls asleep at the fire in camp, drunk and mumbling Branka's name as tiny tears squeeze from his dreaming eyes. Zevran covers him with a blanket.

The journey back to Eamon's is long. He promises to meet them in Denerim to set the Landsmeet up, and urges them to finish any last minute business they might have.

She finds Sten's sword Asala, reunites Oghren with an old love, helps Wynne find her long lost pupil in the woods of the Dalish.

When Morrigan approaches her to slay Flemeth, she does, but not because Flemeth is evil, as Morrigan thinks. Amell does not do it because Flemeth is a dread witch or an immortal demon, and she does not hesitate just because Flemeth saved their lives on the Tower of Ishal.

She kills Flemeth, because in Flemeth she sees the same hollow darkness she saw in the broodmother's eyes – the desire to die.

The broodmother was suffering. Flemeth has more power than any other mortal being in the Fade. She is not suffering. She wants to 'die' so she can start over, gain more power.

Amell understands.

When Alistair rolls off the dragon's head and pulls his sword from Flemeth's iridescent skull, he hears Oghren whoop and hug Wynne as she hugs him back in celebration. Amell runs up to Alistair and checks him over for wounds.

"Are you alright? Are you bit? Did she –"

"I'm fine." He smiles – the first real smile directed at her in a long while, and it makes Amell's heart do a funny little jump. "I was more worried she'd singe off my perfect hair, actually –"

He looks down and notices her eyes are full of tears. She's _crying_.

"I was...I-I was worried." She sniffs. "When sh-she had you in her mouth...chomping on you like you were some kind of...of..."

"Better me than you." He smiles crookedly and motions at his armor. "I'm more of a canned meal."

She gives a watery laugh. The relief of the intense battle and its end floods over them like a wave, and she's just a little surprised at herself how much she wants to stand on her toes and kiss him.

She doesn't. She can't. He's going to be king.

He's going to be_ king_.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Sorry for the long wait guys! I just finished writing an actual book, lol. So no time for fanfics. I've got more time now. The chapter after this one is going to have a semi-lemon in it, just a warning. I'm also upping the rating to M because of it. I'd rather be safe than have this deleted. Thanks again!

* * *

For once, everybody gets to sleep in beds.

Beds are rare, beautiful things, Alistair decides. Things to be worshipped. He jokes at dinner at Arl Eamon's estate that when he's king, he'll make a holiday just for beds. Bedday, right in between Market Day and the Feast of Maferath. Leliana lets out a small giggle. Wynne chuckles. Zevran groans like someone had physically stabbed him, and Sten mirrors his feelings by putting on an especially big grimace. Oghren is too drunk to do anything but laugh like a constipated nug.

Amell looks down into her pudding and excuses herself.

Throughout the days leading up to the Landsmeet, the mage had taken her intrepid party around Denerim, gaining the support of nobles and leaders alike by introducing them to Alistair and helping with their problems. They'd paid a visit to Marjolaine, and killed her in cold blood that Leliana seemed to equally enjoy and loathe. They'd stormed Howe's estate and found enough incriminating evidence to sway the hard courts of the Tevinters. The Landsmeet was theirs, if the people of Ferelden were willing to listen.

The party has noticed a change in their leader.

Morrigan was the first to bring it up to Wynne through a offhand comment. The two did not normally speak. Water and oil didn't normally speak either, and they got along better than the two women did.

"Her spells are quite inaccurate." The witch of the wilds sighs.

Wynne looks up from studying a book in the library of the estate. "I have noticed it as well. The Fade weaving of her incantations has been loosening considerably. Perhaps she is sick."

"She's done nearly all of the legwork of uniting Ferelden herself." Morrigan sniffs. "If she's not sick, or at least weary, we will be forced to come to the conclusion she is possessed by an Endurance spirit."

Morrigan shows a strange kind of concern – she spends much time in Amell's room, the two often walk the courtyards together. Wynne offers herbs and poultices to help Amell sleep. Zevran turns to offering her bed company, if she needs a way to fatigue herself enough to sleep. Oghren brings in hard spirits to drink. Nothing really works. Amell still tends to be awake at all hours of the night.

When Alistair finds her, she's passed out on a bench in the gardens, leaning heavily on Sten's bulky shoulder. The Quanri stares ahead, glancing to the side only when Alistair clears his throat.

"The Kadan is resting. Do not disturb her."

"I-I, don't you think we should move her? Someplace...flatter, maybe?"

"No."

Alistair has learned, by this point, that arguing or trying to convince Sten to do anything he didn't want to was impossible. He sits on the other side of Amell, awkwardly shuffling his feet as Sten stares ahead.

"She is tired."

Alistair looks up at the words. Sten seems a statue of cloud-gray marble, with his mouth the only thing that moves.

"Is Ferelden so incapable that it has to place all the weight of uniting itself on the shoulders of one female mage?"

Alistair doesn't have an answer for that, but Sten doesn't seem to need one.

"You will be king of this land, if all goes in correct form to the Kadan and her advisor's plan." Sten continues. He had taken to calling Eamon the 'advisor'. "You must see to it that Ferelden grows every stronger. I will not have my people waste their time invading a weak country."

"I..." Alistair swallows. "I'm not even sure I want to be king."

"You must." Sten grunts. "Kadan plans to remove Loghain from power. If he is removed, the defacto ruler would be the woman Queen. This is also unsuitable."

"Remind me again why I should care about the Qunari's opinion?"

"It is not just the Qunari." Sten shifts, but only slightly. "You have formed a bond with the Kadan. You will not disappoint her. She believes you being King is the correct future for Ferelden, therefore, it is."

"You're really good at oversimplification. Scary good, actually."

Sten doesn't say anything more. Alistair stays with him and watches Amell breathe softly. The garden around them is heavy with flowers and the heady smell of pollen. The greenery casts dark shades over her cheeks made pale from exhaustion. She spent her nights up late with Eamon, most of the time, discussing tactics and speeches for the Landsmeet.

She was trying hard.

Eventually her eyes open.

"H-How long was I out?" She straightens away from Sten's shoulder.

"Approximately four hours, Kadan."

"I'm so sorry, Sten. I –" She looks closely at his bared arm. "There's drool! Oh Maker, I'm so, _so_ sorry."

Sten shakes his head and she gives a nervous laugh. The sound is high and soft, and dies out when she turns her head to see Alistair. He starts up from the bench immediately.

"I-I, uh, I was just going. Somewhere. Anywhere other than here."

"Alistair! Are you alright? It's very late. And...why are you here without your guards? Didn't Eamon tell them to stay with you? You should get used to having them around."

Her smile is very convincing.

"Didn't like them much." He murmurs. The mage nods thoughtfully.

"They are a little wax-figure like, aren't they?"

"You think if I brandished my fire-rune weapon, they'd melt?" Alistair quirks an eyebrow.

"We could put a fiber in the tops of their heads and use them in the bedchambers as conversational candles." Her eyes twinkle.

The silence settles in, and Sten nods a goodnight to his Kadan, but not him. For a few moments, Alistair can convince himself they were in the old days, when banter like this was common, and her smiles more the kind that warmed him from the inside out rather than the recent type that froze his heartbeat in its tracks with chilly, fake pleasantries.

"Arl Eamon has graciously found the address of Goldanna's home." She starts softly. Alistair starts. "We'll visit her tomorrow, if that is convenient for you."

"Of course!" He smiles. "Now I have to worry about my hair, and pressing my shirt. Damn you."

"You have servants for that, now." She laughs.

He dreams that night about it being different. He dreams about a night in the camp before their journey got hard – the two of them beside the fire, talking over the nuances of their eccentric companions, or the day they'd had. Simple things; her life in the tower, stories of chantry mishaps of his. His dream goes on past dinner, past the time in which the party settled in to clean their weapons and armor to ready them for the next day.

The dream goes farther, and somehow she's shyly kissing him now, and it's the moment in his life he wants to hold on to forever, even when he's old, even when he's dead. It's impossible, this kiss, and he knows that and that's what makes him realize it's a dream, and that the way he leads her to his tent is impossible, and the way she laughs as he struggles with taking her robes off is impossible, and her hot mouth on his skin makes him twitch, blush, moan, and that she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, will ever see, and she's enchantingly willful and witty and obliviously adorable and a hundred other things, and she makes him feel okay, and he needs to feel okay, that he can't go without feeling okay, feeling her, before he's shackled to the throne with golden clasps that will drive them even further apart.

He wakes from the dream, flushed and angry and determined all in one. He throws his shirt on and marches past the guards, through the halls, around the late-cleaning elves. Just before her door he stops, hand raised as if to knock. He will knock, and he will tell her. Everything. Even if it ruins their friendship, even if she hates him for it.

The wood in front of his eyes is a thin barrier between them. The candlelight is bright under the door. She's awake. He remembers the cold indifference, the polite tones in her voice that have turned her into a distant, busy woman. She sees him as a good friend, a best friend. A most trusted ally that she'd give her life to protect while she fights to free her country.

His vigor flags. He can't disturb that. She has enough problems, so many that she doesn't sleep anymore. He can't trouble her with his stupid feelings. Not when Ferelden needs her most.

He can live on the dreams.

* * *

Goldanna is a bitch.

He apologizes.

Amell smiles and tells him it's simply life.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Uh, yeah, so lemon kind of warning here. Sorry if its not in ya'lls taste, I just felt Amell and Ali needed to get it on already. lol. Please skip it if you don't like. Thanks for your reviews!

* * *

They rescue the biggest bitch in the world.

Which doesn't come as a surprise to Amell, because she's heard Denerim was full of bitches. Most of them high class and therefore disillusioned into the fact they need to be mean and haughty.

Amell likes Anora because Amell and Anora are the same. Bitches.

In many ways, Amell thinks as she looks at the Queen over her teacup, Anora is like Morrigan. They are very similar, but she knows Morrigan would object to being compared to the privileged, beautiful, icy woman.

"Eamon has suggested I marry Alistair."

Amell's tea would have come up her nose, if she hadn't tempered her swallowing properly. She'd learned by now to tamp down the emotions in her that had previously run free. Oghren called it 'her nobliziation process'.

"And, are you considering it?" The mage asks slowly.

"Yes. If I was to rule alone I would lack a love of my people that only a descendant of Maric can bring to the court. With my significant knowledge behind Alistair's ability to sway the hearts of the people, the kingdom would be assured prosperity."

"Nothing is certain."

"Of course not. But the chances we would usher in a golden era for all of Ferelden would be quite high."

"And...what are your..._personal_ opinions on this move?"

Anora sniffs delicately and turns her teacup in its saucer. "I have no wish to wed a man that is not on an equal level of intellect with me. It's bad enough he is a bastard child and not a well-bred man. His manner offends me, and frankly he looks too much like my husband for me to ever truly find him attractive."

Amell flushes.

"Mistake me not, I will turn against my father in the Landsmeet if it means I can ascend to power and tame Ferelden's woes. I can certainly marry a slow, stupid man to do the same."

"He's not."

"What?" Anora looks over at her.

"He might not be the most clever, or ambitious, but he has a warm heart." Amell grits her teeth. "He fights well. He cares for others. He is dependable and...handsome..."

Anora's eyes flatten as Amell's words get softer. She turns her nose and drinks more tea.

"Do you not think your personal emotions are clouding your judgment?"

"I-I-"

"I cannot marry Alistair without Eamon's consent and willingness to reveal Alistair as Maric's legitimate heir. Eamon will only listen to you. Essentially, the kingdom's fate rests with you. If you have any emotional attachment to Alistair, I suggest you shed it now in favor of clear thinking. A mage can never love a king. This much is certain."

The icy-cool words hit every organ in her body, as if she was splayed open and her skin and bones peeled back to let Anora throw daggers at her innermost parts. All that she had been trying to suppress, to keep to herself in the quiet darkness of her mind, falls out at once. In her hand the teacup shakes against the saucer. Harder, and more violently, and then it drops to the floor and shatters into a million pieces of spinning ceramic.

Anora coolly watches as the elven maids sweep in and wipe the shards from the floor. The mage sits stock still on the couch one moment, and all the life seems to drain from her in the next. She loses the bright light in her eyes. Her shoulders sag. The soft hum of magic that came from the battle shields she habitually maintained fall away to silence.

"You're right."

Anora looks surprised. "I know. I was not certain you'd take it so well, however."

"I will approach this situation with an open mind free of bias." Amell nods. "Please rest assured."

"Wonderful." Anora stands and smiles, clasping the mage's hand with her own. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a dress fitting to attend."

Amell does not cry.

Not anymore.

* * *

Amell does not eat.

During the last few days before the Landsmeet, she does not join the party at the dinner table. There is drinking and laughing, and life continues without her. Eamon has her plates sent up to the library, where she pours over books of politics and procedure. The drive to appear perfect and convincing in front of the Landsmeet is overpowering.

Morrigan, on one of the few days she's in the castle for dinner, offers to take the food up. The library is in a half-state of disarray, lanterns lighting tables as piles of books throw shadows over the floor.

Buried behind a large wall of books, Amell licks her finger and turns a page. Duncan sits at her feet, sleeping soundly and twitching every so often with a dream of chasing something.

"And on this floor we see a foolish mage attempting to integrate into an equally foolish noble society."

Amell looks up, dark brown hair mussed in places from where she'd propped her head up with her hand. Morrigan sets the plate before her and coughs.

"Thank you, Morrigan," She smiles, "But I'm not hungry."

Morrigan ignores her and reads the spines of several books. "_Etiquette and You: A Comprehensive Guide on Manners When In Court. The Complicates of Bowing: How, Why, and When It Is Most Important. Public Speaking For The Drastically Tongue Tied_. Amell, are you quite serious? Just what in the name of all that is Fade-related are you trying so hard to learn? It cannot simply be that you are fearful for your manners, for Eamon is to do most of the speaking."

Amell pushes her potatoes around on her plate and avoids looking at her.

"Ahh, that look I know well. I have seen it on many an apostate's face before. That is the 'I wish not to be a mage' look."

Morrigan eyes the prominent bones poking out of the younger mage's wrists and jaw. The sharpness of hunger had whittled her down in a few simple days.

"What is it you are trying to become then? From the looks of these," Morrigan motions to the books, "I would say you're attempting to transform miraculously into a noble."

"It's not that –"

"Clearly it is. I tire of your evasiveness. The others do as well. If this is the last we are to see of you before the battle for Ferelden, we'd prefer your nose to be speaking with us, not buried in these infernal things. Alistair in particular. He sulks quite grossly until you are in the room."

Amell smiles and lets out a low laugh.

"I know. I'll be better, I p-promise."

The word cracks seconds before she does.

Tears. Large, wet tears spill over even as her smile remains on her face. She laughs softly and cries. Morrigan has never liked or tolerated tears.

But for this one time, she will.

"I do not understand love." The witch murmurs as she strokes her hair. "But if Alistair gives to you what you have given to me, you should love him while you can."

* * *

She runs.

She's never been much good at running. As a mage they kept fit by doing only the most basic of combat training, but her endurance and tolerance for running were legendary in that they were dismal.

But this is not really running.

She's flying.

The brisk night air bites at her exposed skin. Her robe is short and her temper even shorter. She shoulders through the usual estate crowd, nobles, merchants, elvish servants. She tears through the corridor, and past all the rooms of her companions.

"Where are you going in such a fleshy rush?" Shale deadpans. Duncan runs at her heels, stopping and begging from a pet from Wynne, who poked her head out just in time to see Amell pass. Leliana and Zevran, deep in card game with high stakes, both start up from the table as Duncan lets out a string of happy yips.

"Amell!" The bard calls in a rich voice. Zevran watches the mage stride towards a certain direction, and his face blossoms with a smile.

"My dear, let us return to the game. My gut says this night is yet long."

Sten and Oghren are sitting at a thick wooden table. Oghren drunkenly ranting to a very effective word-wall that is Sten's passive face, and Sten meticulously cleaning Asala. They stop in both of their actions momentarily as Amell strides through the room, and then return to their belches and polish.

The door is open. Alistair's guard nod on either side of the door as she enters. Green eyes search for the familiar broad frame, only to find him collapsed on the bed, sleeping peacefully.

She still had a chance. It was okay if she turned around and left now. He would never know.

The flames from the fireplace are no more than gently pulsing embers. The blankets are off him, he fell asleep while still on top of them. His eyes are closed, long gold lashes throwing tiny shadows over his cheeks.

Amell looks at the man she never thought she'd hold a wildfire in her heart for. Anora's words wash over her as a calming, logically soothing wave.

'_A mage can never love a king_.'

She walks over to the side of the bed. His hair is mussed and he smells like wood smoke and sleep.

Anora is right.

Ferelden is more important than her heart.

He would find happiness with someone, even if it wasn't Anora. There would be many courtesans with luscious beauty and clear laughter that would make him fall in love. He would find someone to love him very well, she was sure of that much. He would be okay without one scraggly, cowardly mage.

She leans in, watching his lips just before she meets them with her own. The touch is butterfly-light, nothing too hard that might wake him. It was okay to be a little selfish.

It was okay if she stole just this one thing and kept it as a nice secret, a nice memory.

He kisses back.

He's awake. She pulls away out of shock, fear, but the strong hand on her wrist pulls her on top of him, lips hungry and searching for every inch of satin skin he can find. Every tiny graze of his mouth on her face, her neck, sends her skin into a red hot frenzy.

They part for air, and he pants softly, burying his face in her hair and taking in the smell.

"I know this is a dream. I know that. This is going to end and I'll wake up again. Just promise me you won't end too soon. Let me live this for a while longer, please."

She shifts her thigh to get off his chest, and it brushes against something thick and hard through the cloth of his pants.

"_Please."_ He inhales sharply.

"A-Alistair, this isn't a dream."

He groans and laughs. "You say that everytime. And everytime I wake up and find you just as beautiful and distracted and as far away from me as ever."

Her heart wrenches around in her chest. He leans his head up, eager to make their lips meet again.

"Let me have this dream." He smiles. "It'll help me to tame those darn pesky urges to stride over and kiss your real world counterpart until she can't breathe."

Amell's face flushes an even deeper red. "A-Alistair, I'm really here."

"Are you?" Alistair sits up, the crooked smile still on as he lets her fall into the bed. He lies to the side of her, hand grazing over her shoulder, her waist, her hips. "I don't think you really are. The Amell I know in real life thinks of me as nothing more than a friend. She's busy and exhausted all the time trying to find a way to protect Ferelden from the Blight and itself. She's smart enough to stay far away from a horrible perverted bastard like me."

His fingers slide lower, cupping over the slit in her robe where her thigh begins.

"The great thing about dreams," The templar murmurs into her ear, "Is that even a chantry-boy like me, who's never really had sex before, can pretend in his mind that he's excellent at it. No disappointing embarrassment. No awkward –"

His hand slides under her smallclothes to cup the heat there. She shudders into him as the fingers find her slick opening with practiced ease and pierce deep inside of her.

"-fumbling."

"Al-Alistair, please listen...ah...to me."

"You're burning up inside."

"I'm real!"

"I know, love. You're the very real girl I can never have, except here."

The fingers pull out and slide in again, deeper than before. Her thighs tighten around his wrist.

"I-I'm the real –"

The kiss muffles her words and seconds later, her shuddering gasp. Alistair pulls his fingers out, slick with a pale white film, and smiles, kissing her neck.

"That was fast. Someone's dream counterpart is a little too sensitive."

"You...You insufferable –" She starts, the keening pleasure subsiding enough for her to catch her breath again. Kisses and soft whispered 'I'm sorrys' intermingled with his low laughter are the trigger for the deep sleep that washes over her after days of insomnia.

* * *

"Good morning you two!"

The light filters in through the canopy bed, and the thick Orlesian accent chirps louder.

"I've brought you breakfast! I hope you don't mind. Amell, Eamon says for you to please see him in his office as soon as you're decent. He has news."

Alistair blinks at the small shoulders of the girl wrapped in his arms. There are patches of exposed skin, and rosy blushes, and dark, purple marks on her neck. Kissing bruises. All the blood drains from his face and leaves it a sheet white. Leliana smiles.

"Oh, you look quite surprised, Alistair. Is everything alright?"

"This is his first time waking up to a woman." Zevran chimes in from behind the bard as he walks in. "I came to see history in the making."

A breathless Oghren leans on the doorway, wheezing.

"Did they fuck? I ran here as fast as I heard!"

The girl in his arms stirs. Dark lashes part and the green orbs soften upon seeing his shocked face.

"I tried to tell you." Amell singsongs sleepily, pressing herself into the crook of his neck. Oghren whistles. Alistair throws all the pillows in reach at the three of them and bellows GET OUT.


End file.
